This or that age may write, but never see

A wit that dares run parallel with thee.

True Ben must live; but bate him, and thou hast
Undone all future wits, and match'd the past."

Again, in an elegy on a friend slain at Pontefract, 1648, he writes:

"Nor is't a common valour we deplore,

But such as with fifteen a hundred bore;
And, lightning like, (not coop'd within a wall)
In storms of fire and steel, fell on them all.
Thou wert no woolsack soldier; nor of those
Whose courage lies in winking at their foes-
That live at loop-holes, and consume their breath
On match or pipes, and sometimes peep at death;
No, it were sin to number these with thee,
But that, thus poiz'd, our loss we better see.
The fair and open valour was thy shield;
And thy known station, the defying field."

He thus concludes an address to Powell, on his translation of Malvezzi :

"Come, then, rare politicians of the time,
Brains of some standing, elders in our clime,
See here the method: a wise, solid state
Is quick in acting, friendly in debate,
Joint in advice, in resolutions just,
Mild in success, true to the common trust.
It cements ruptures, and by gentle hand
Allays the heat and burnings of a land.
Religion guides it, and in all the tract
Designs so twist, that heaven confirms the act.
If from these lists you wander as you steer,
Look back, and catechise your actions here;
These are the marks to which true statesmen tend,
And greatness here with goodness hath one end."

The latter part of this small volume is composed of translations from Ovid, Ausonius, Boëtius, and Casimir, together with a few copies of original verse. Nearly the whole of this part of our author's productions is well worthy of being revived; but it is to the versions of the Metra of Boëtius, that we should most wish to draw the attention of our readers.

He has, with great judgment, adopted the octo-syllabic

measure, which, by its airy facility, is best of all fitted for conveying an idea of lyrical Latin poetry to the English reader. Part of the Second Metrum, Book First, of Boëtius, runs thus:

This soul, sometime wont to survey
The spangled Zodiack's fiery way,
Saw th' early sun in roses drest,
With the cool moon's unstable crest;
And whatsoever wanton star

In various courses near or far,

Pierc'd through the orbs, he cou'd full well
Track all her journey, and would tell
Her mansions, turnings, rise, and fall,
By curious calculation all.

Of sudden winds the hidden cause,

And why the calm sea's quiet face
With impetuous waves is curl'd.

What spirit wheels the harmonious world;
Or why a star dropp'd in the West,

Is seen to rise again by East.

Who gives the warm spring temp'rate hours,
Decking the earth with spicy flowers.

Or how it comes (for man's recruit)

That autumn yields both grape and fruit.

With many other secrets, he

Could show the cause and mystery.

But now that light is almost out,

And the brave soul lies chain'd about

With outward cares, whose pensive weight

Sinks down her eyes with their first height,

And clear contrary to her birth

Pores on this vile and foolish earth.

The following is a version of an address to the Deity, which forms the Fifth Metrum:

And at sun-rising, ('cause the least,) Look pale and sleepy in the East. Thou, when the leaves in winter stray, Appoint'st the sun a shorter way; And in the pleasant summer-light, With nimble hours dost wing the night. Thy hand the various year quite through Discreetly tempers,-that what now The North-wind tears from ev'ry tree In spring again restor'd we see. Then what the winter-stars between The furrows in mere seed have seen, The dog-star, since grown up and born, Hath burnt in stately, full-ear'd corn. Thus by creation's law controul'd, All things their proper stations hold, Observing (as thou didst intend) Why they were made, and for what end. Only human actions thou

Hast no care of, but to the flow

And ebb of fortune leav'st them all.
Hence th' inn'cent endure that thrall

Due to the wicked, whilst alone
They sit possessors of his throne;
The just are killed, and virtue lies
Buried in obscurities;

And (which of all things is most sad)
The good man suffers by the bad.
No perjuries, nor damn'd pretence,
Colour'd with holy, lying sense,
Can them annoy, but when they mind
To try their force, which most men find,
They, from the highest sway of things,
Can pull down great and pious kings.
O then, at length, thus loosely hurl'd,
Look on this miserable world,
Whoe'er thou art, that from above
Dost in such order all things move;
And let not man (of divine art
Not the least, nor vilest part)
By casual evils thus bandied, be
The sport of fate's obliquity.

But with that faith thou guid'st the heav'n,
Settle this earth, and make them even.

In the same easy vein, our poet has translated Metrum VI.:

"When the crab's fierce constellation
Burns with the beams of the bright sun,
Then he that will go out to sow
Shall never reap where he did plough,
But, instead of corn, may rather
(The old world's diet) acorns gather.
Who the violet doth love,

Must seek her in the flow'ry grove;
But never when the North's cold wind
The russet fields with frost doth bind.
If in the spring-time (to no end)
The tender vine for grapes we bend,
We shall find none, for only still
Autumn doth the wine-press fill.
Thus for all things, in the world's prime,
The wise God seal'd their proper time,
Nor will permit those seasons, he
Ordain'd by turns, should mingled be.
Then whose wild actions out of season,
Cross to nature and her reason,

Would by new ways old orders rend,
Shall never find a happy end."

He has been equally happy in turning the following little moral ode, which forms the Third Metrum of Boëtius's Second Book.

When the sun from his rosy bed
The dawning light begins to shed,
The drowsy sky uncurtains round,

And the (but now bright) stars all drown'd
In one great light, look dull and tame,
And homage his victorious flame.
Thus, when the warm Etesian wind
The earth's seal'd bosom doth unbind,
Straight she her various store discloses
And purples ev'ry grove with roses;
But if the South's tempestuous breath
Breaks forth, those blushes pine to death.
Oft in a quiet sky the deep
With unmov'd waves seem fast asleep,
And oft again the blust'ring North,
In angry heaps provokes them forth.

If then this world, which holds all nations,
Suffers itself such alterations,

That not this mighty, massy frame,
Nor any part of it can claim

One certain course, why should man prate
Or censure the designs of fate?
Why from frail honours, and goods lent,
Should he expect things permanent?
Since 'tis enacted by divine decree
That nothing mortal shall eternal be.

We must, however, conclude our extracts from the poems of our "Iscanian swan," with this pleasant description of the Golden Age, which is turned with equal faithfulness and felicity:

Happy that first white age! when we

Lived by the earth's mere charity;
No soft luxurious diet then

Had effeminated men ;

No other meat, nor wine had any,
Than the coarse mast, or simple honey;
And by the parents' care laid up
Cheap berries did the children sup.
No pompous wear was in those days
Of gummy silks, or scarlet baise.
Their beds were on some flow'ry brink,
And clear spring water was their drink.
The shady pine in the sun's heat
Was their cool and known retreat,
For then 'twas not cut down, but stood
The youth and glory of the wood.
The daring sailor with his slaves
Then had not cut the swelling waves,
Nor for desire of foreign store
Seen any but his native shore.
No stirring drum had scar'd that age,
Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage;
No wounds by bitter hatred made
With warm blood soil'd the shining blade;
For how could hostile madness arm
An age of love to public harm?
When common justice none withstood,
Nor sought rewards for spilling blood.
O that at length our age would raise
Into the temper of those days!